A Mortal Theatre
by fluidstatic
Summary: Can The Leading Man maintain his charade in the face of his oldest and dearest friend? Balthier, OC.


**A Mortal Theatre**

_(Henne Mine, Summer 607 OV)_

A dozen dead soldiers littered the path into the Henne mines. They wore black linen uniforms spattered with sticky grey fluid, crusted with dirt. Flies congregated around them; the smell of rot and stale potion was plain. Basch averted his eyes, his face a mask, and Fran covered her nose. Ashe began to cough, her delicate constitution doubtlessly compromised by the stench of innocent Archadians rotting in the sun.

(Ffamran moaned inwardly at the thought of comrades dead; Balthier merely made a small sound of complaint against the unseemly stench and spat pointedly in the grass.)

Larsa spoke first, the insufferable brat. "This is what Jote meant by men in a warren? But, these are Cid's researchers. What were they doing here?"

"Nothing good, from the look of it," Balthier muttered, keeping his eyes on the rafters. Bats were a bigger problem than bodies, and he was hardly in the mood to pander to Larsa. He stepped over one corpse, then another, his attention on the silhouette of a gate several meters ahead as he left the light of Ozmone behind.

_(Just get on with it.)_

But then Ashe called, panicked, from the mouth of the cave.

"Wait, look..."

Penelo turned, put both hands over her mouth. Balthier followed her gaze and stopped short.

_(No no no, not this, not now, surely hallucinating... steady, now.)_

The princess was white as milk, looking down into the face of a soldier who struggled to raise his head. The young man's red hair was matted and filthy, but his eyes were still clear and green.

_(Sealus? Sealus, old friend... damn it, you promised me you'd resign when I left, what part of 'Get out While You Can' didn't make sense, oh Gods)_

"What have we here?" Balthier drawled, and the soldier met his eyes.

***

_"Tell me how it goes again, Ffamran. If I bollocks this..."  
"Come on, Sealus, it'll be a lark – it's just an exam."  
"It's only the hardest exam I'll ever take."  
"I'm telling you, If you stare at that textbook another second you'll go blind. Play cards with me."  
"Nah – show me that blueprint you're drawing."  
"Strahl? I thought she bored you."  
"She's gorgeous."  
"You're stroking my ego again."  
"Your ego don't need stroking, Bunansa, you little git. Show me."_

***

The soldier's eyes widened slightly as he tried to catch his breath. "Bloody hell... you... Ff..."

"Steady, soldier," Balthier said gravely, ignoring the panic rising in his belly. "Tell me what happened."

_"They're making me a Judge."  
"You're not amusing."  
"I'm not trying to be."  
"Cor. Do I have to call you Sir?"  
"Your Honour, technically."  
"Bollocks."  
"Bollocks and damn, to be specific. Soldier."  
"Pff... Yes, Your Honour."_

***

Sealus wet his lips; his breath rattled. "Th... that damn Viera... brought the... mine down on us." Fran looked down the corridor, eyes dilated, ears twitching. Sealus coughed. "Getting away... ambushed. Flans in the rafters. I thought I was...dead."

Balthier leaned closer, caught sight of three red glass buttons on his collar. "You don't look dead to me... Lieutenant, is it?" he murmured. A flicker of Ffamran's proud smile threatened the corner of his mouth; he intercepted it with a cold smirk. "Let's get you patched up and take you home."

"So glad..." Sealus croaked, his eyes filling with tears. "I missed..."

***

_"I need to get to the Strahl."  
"What are you talking... Blimey, you're bleeding."  
"I've got to get out. They're trying to..."  
"Slow down, mate. Slow down."  
"Cid's gone mad. No, I can't explain. I have to go."  
"Ffamran, are you daft? You can't leave."  
"You don't understand. Just... hold them off."  
"Hold who...? Ffamran, please!"  
"I'm sorry, Sealus."_

***

_"I know," _Ffamran said, from somewhere far away. _"It's all right."_ Balthier turned. "Fran..."

She knelt, and Sealus gasped like a carp in panic. Balthier shook his head. "Easy, Lieutenant. She won't hurt you."

Fran's hands were gentle, her nose twitching. "Where do you hurt?" she murmured.

"Can't feel... my legs."

"You are poisoned. The paralysis is a side effect," Fran said. She uncorked a little vial, held it to his lips. "Drink this."

Sealus drank the antidote, but he never took his eyes from Balthier's face. Fran's gaze was placid but her pupils contracted, hiding despair; thus Ffamran caught a glimpse of the inevitable and flew into panic.

(_It's not too late, it can't be too late not now damn everything mate you won't die that's a bloody order.)_

Woozy with the smell of death, Balthier coughed into his handkerchief.

"I am going to put you to sleep," Fran murmured. "You will breathe more freely this way. We will take you to Jahara; there are healers there, with great talent. When you wake, you will be safe with them."

The lie was hard to bear, But Sealus already knew. He gripped Balthier's arm, imploring, delirious.

"Don't... leave me."

Balthier tried to smile casually, forcing one more lie. "We'll be here when you wake. Steady, now."

Fran laid the gold and green spell to Sealus' chest, and it coiled around his neck in gentle strangling fingers; the pain in his face eased. For a moment it seemed he would truly sleep, but the waxy hollowness of death found him, then; this was a face Balthier had seen a thousand times and never been fazed (as Ffamran, howling protestations, went unheard every time).

Balthier slowly got to his feet. Ffamran's screams clawed at his throat; he swallowed them, one at a time.

"He is dead?" Larsa was too young, too sheltered to understand. Fran nodded, and the young lord shrank back.

Basch frowned. "There was no way to help him?"

Fran shook her head; her voice caught in her throat. "We were too late."

Penelo turned away, mute and shaking (how Ffamran envied her candor).

"Who is he?" Vaan asked. "You knew him."

"No." Lying was too easy, and his throat burned for the crime of it. Desperate for escape he turned, feeling Ffamran's wrathful blame in every corner of him, thirsty for some form of honesty in himself _(How long have I played the fool? Six years? Six, bastard Pirate?), b_ut Ashe pursued him, her voice bouncing dully around the corridor.

"You speak to a man so intimately and then walk away from him? Have you no heart? I order you to answer me!"

In midstride, Balthier paused to contemplate the merits of homicide.

(_"Kill her,"_ Ffamran shrieked, _"What does she know of anything, friends, comrades, brothers, Sod her, rip out her tongue, precocious bitch - A moment ago she wouldn't have cared whether Sealus lived or died, and now she wanted to play the righteous saviour queen, in all her benevolence and grace, and make me look the sinner? Bugger if I'll let her yank me about, not after all she's put me through. If she won't take a hint, drive it bloody well home! Come on! Damn the stones, damn Dalmasca, damn her, Kill her!"_)

The pirate turned slowly, wondering faintly at the knot in his throat. "Consider this: Fran's sister killed these men, and we have to find her. If you don't like it, you can turn around and take the long walk to Dalmasca on your own, Princess."

Ashe fell back, livid, cowed. Basch followed her, with the others close behind. Balthier carried on into the mine on long strides, twisted, furious, nauseous; Fran caught up with him easily.

"I won't hear a word of it," Balthier snapped, before she could speak.

(Ffamran began to cry. _Years of running... years and months, weeks and days, hours and minutes and seconds and... and Nothing...)_

They walked on, silent, listening to the slow drip of water and the hollow echo of their own footsteps. When a flan fell from its perch in the support beams, Balthier was more than ready. The report of his rifle eclipsed a sudden shout of rage, condemning the world to dust and to a painful hell.

"Ffamran," Fran whispered, bolstering him as his knees suddenly turned to water with grief (how does she always know?). "I am sorry."

Nauseated, helpless with rage, Balthier began to laugh, listening as Ffamran sobbed violently, locked away deep in his breast under layers of linen and leather, lace and lies.


End file.
